I'm So Hungry, I Could Murder You
by Toadflame
Summary: Step aside, Yin and Yang.  There's a new murderer in town, and his name is-  Major AU.
1. Arc 1, Part 1 of 5

**Yes, this is totally creepy. Thank you. :D**

**Now, this story is based **_**LOOSELY**_** (and I stress this dearly) on **_**The Dark Knight**_** movie. I say loosely because I have never actually seen the movie, just a completely awesome trailer. Go to Youtube and type in this exact name: **The Dark Knight Trailer 2 - Psych Version.**The video is named exactly that, so it'll be the first one.**

**So, I've…really got nothing more to say other than this is not going to be the same **_**Psych**_** characters we all know, love, and borrow. This is the 'Oh my f- god, what the hell did you do to them?' **_**Psych**_**. It's based on my imagination. I will try to limit them to what they might actually say or do, but there are no promises, especially with Shawn, Gus, and Madeline; it is most definitely AU. This entire piece will have flashbacks throughout. Year will be posted.**

**Enjoy. Rating is a very, very, VERY hard M for a reason. This is really not for people under the age of 17 due to graphic violence, murder, swearing, and some other stuff that I shouldn't even think about, let alone write. The Shawn here is so dark, I swear there is no light to be seen for 62 thousand light-years.**

**Also, I started this a while ago, meaning that it may be a little...dated, shall we say? Not by like, a bajillionths of a thing or anything. Also, I'm not very sure on this, but it's something to try, and I really, really hope you enjoy. Seriously, please heed the warnings for this story. Any questions may be asked through review or PM, and I will be more than happy to answer them. Updates won't be regular, but I have the first three chapters done, and I'll post the next one on Friday.**

**Please review with any comments about this story because I really would like to know if it is something I should continue posting or take down and save for my rainy days.**

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_1985_

"_Shawn!" Henry yelled, looking for his son. He went up the stairs, looking in closets and under the bed. "Shawn!"_

"_What Dad?" the boy asked, coming up behind his father._

_Henry forced himself not to jump, slowly turning to face the dark-haired boy. "Shawn, come downstairs with me. We need to talk."_

_Shawn's eyes darted across his father's face for a moment. "OK," he said, leading the way down._

_They sat at the kitchen table. "Shawn, in all honesty, this isn't good news. Your mother has applied for custody again."_

_Shawn's eyes bugged. He stuttered for a moment, searching for words. "I-I-I-what?"_

_Henry closed his eyes, sighing quietly. Swallowing, he looked again at Shawn. "Buddy, I know. You don't want to go. Unfortunately, you have no choice, and neither do I. She's spread lies to the judge about how I'm treating you. Here," he grunted, searching the mail for a minute to hold up an opened envelope. Handing it to his son, he added, "Take a look for yourself."_

_Shawn took it, hands trembling in shock and something else…rage maybe? Henry couldn't tell. Looking at all sheets quickly, Shawn's eyes finally found the letters. "Abuse letters…sent to her?" Shawn looked up in confusion. "I never sent her anything."_

"_I know, Shawn. And that's what makes this difficult. They're typed, and you can type something without saving it and claim it is from somebody," Henry said. He sighed again. "I really want to defy this, just…get away somewhere. But they'd find us, you know."_

_Shawn nodded. "I know," he said._

_They sat in silence, which was broken by a knock on the door. Henry opened it to see Gus, Shawn's best friend, standing there._

"_Oh, hi Gus. Come on in," Henry invited, holding out a gesture of 'Come in.' The young African-American did._

"_Shawn, what's wrong?" Gus asked, sitting next to the drawn child._

"_My mom's getting custody of me," Shawn mumbled._

_Gus gasped. "That's terrible!"_

"_I know, right? She got inco- incar- put away in jail for murder!" Shawn said, voice raising even as he stumbled over the word. He slammed the table with a fist._

"_Hey now, no need to take it out on the table," Henry soothed. "I'm going to find some way to get you back into my custody, but until then, you have to go with her."_

"_I'll go pack," Shawn mumbled._

"_I'll help," Gus said after a moment, following Shawn upstairs._

_Henry waited until they were out of earshot. "Fuck," he moaned, knowing in his heart he would never get his son back._

_

* * *

_

2010

Shawn stood at the top of a ridge just outside Santa Barbara. He took a deep draught of salty air and grinned.

"Hello. I'm back," he whispered reverently, glancing around the scenery. Taking out a phone, he speed-dialed Gus' number.

"_Hello?"_ the tired voice of an INTERPOL officer asked.

"Hey, Gus, buddy! How you been? Where're you at?" Shawn said brightly into the phone.

"_Home in Santa Barbara, why?"_ Gus asked, answering only one of Shawn's questions.

"Because I'm standing on the hill on the east side of Santa Barbara looking at the city."

Gus gasped, instantly sounding much more alert. _"You're back? That's great!"_

Shawn smiled, rather evilly if he did say so himself. His mother would be proud if she could see him. "Yeah. I bet some people won't be so happy though." He flipped the phone closed on the conversation and stretched. "Actually, quite a few," he said with a simper that blew into a full laugh. It echoed around the empty area.

* * *

Head Detective Carlton Lassiter of the Santa Barbara Police Department (SBPD for short) was driving his Crown Vic car into his parking space. He hadn't even opened the driver's door when his in-car scanner went off.

"_All units, we have a 187 reported at 605 Alpine Lane. Looks to be a copy-cat murder or suicide. Repeat: there is a 187 at 605 Alpine Lane, appears to be a copy-cat murder."_

"Damn it," Lassiter swore, switching his car to reverse and flying out of the lot. Activating the sirens, Lassiter felt a strange sensation in his gut as he wove through traffic to the address. _Suicide…got to be. There's no way this is homicide._

Pulling next to the units already there, he stepped out of the car and walked around to the home. Police tape was already up, showing that an officer had discovered the scene. Lassiter lifted the tape and ducked under. As he stepped in the door, he stopped in his tracks.

There was no camera in there yet; hell, nobody was there yet. Lassiter's blue eyes searched the area, noting dully that it was a split-off into the living room and dining room. But his focus then rooted to one of the living room chairs.

A man was there. He wasn't too tall, more or less of average height. The hair was messed and the victim's eyes were opened. But what drew the most attention was the bloody, carved lines on the man's skin. They were obviously deliberate and in no way what a suicidal man would do. While sloppily written (it's rather difficult to write in skin when it is carved), it was obviously done from the front. The lines, though not pristine, were much too clean to have been carved from watching above.

"What the fuck happened here?" the photographer asked, doing the same that Lassiter had done and stopping as soon as he stepped foot in the door.

Lassiter looked around, spotting a tape recording. Picking it up, he looked it over, then looked at the man behind him. "Serial killer," he said solemnly, once again looking at the slashes on the dead man's body.

_1 down_ they read.

* * *

Lassiter and his partner Detective Juliet O'Hara stood in Chief Vick's office, blinds drawn and door closed. Between the three of them on the desk lay the recording Lassiter had found on-scene.

"Well, we need to play it sometime," Vick said, settling herself into the chair.

Lassiter looked at Vick, then back at the recording. "I almost don't want to listen," he said, face pinched as he lifted the tape and placed it into the player they'd managed to find.

It crackled to life. _"Hello Detective Lassiter. Or should I say _Head_ Detective Carlton Lassiter of the SBPD?"_ a man's voice said. Lassiter swore he could hear a grin and laugh in the voice even though neither were present to give evidence to or from it. _"Yes, I know who you are. I know what you do, and I know where you live. No, I'm not a stalker. I'm simply…observant, you could say. Enough pleasantries, however._

"_I suppose you found my handiwork if you're listening to this. And I hope this message gets across: you'll never find me. I'm too clever to carelessly allow you to tail me like several other cases you have had. I am too smart, too quick, too _good_ to simply leave you a trail. You need to work at it. You'll never succeed though."_

"Why the hell tell me this if he says I won't find him?" Lassiter wondered aloud. He was shushed by Vick.

"_That being said, let's try a little game, you and I. Each clue will lead you to the next victim. You might even save them, if you figure it out in time. The case has the clue written in it for this one. Good luck; you'll need it. You have until Thursday when you'll find the next victim._

"_Goodbye, Detective Lassiter. I hope we meet soon."_ The tape was finished out by a laugh. O'Hara reached out and tapped it off, rewinding it.

Lassiter stood for a moment, then reached over for the cassette tape case. He opened it, taking the little card out. A note fell out.

"'_I'll make a watch here and there. I don't leave it anywhere. I'll take you out and make you spin, but when it's done you'll never win. Who am I?_'" Lassiter read aloud to the office. "What kind of riddle is that? It makes no sense whatsoever!"

"Maybe it's not that it makes sense, but what the clues are," O'Hara said. She took it. "'Make a watch here and there,' maybe he's talking about a watchmaker."

"Oh, yeah, that narrows it down," Lassiter said sarcastically. "It's likely that it is, but we need one that only makes them once in a while."

"'I don't leave it anywhere,'" Vick repeated. "That might mean that he makes watches, but doesn't take them anywhere. Watch collector?"

"'I'll take you out and make you spin.' That's not doing anything to help," Lassiter grumbled.

"'But when you're done you'll never win,'" O'Hara finished. "Watchmaker/collector that wins?"

Lassiter grew still. "The watch convention," he murmured. "There is one man that always wins." He turned, then added, "And that's the auctioneer."

* * *

Five minutes later found the Crown Vic racing for the convention center, sirens blaring. Lassiter pulled around into the parking lot, fishtailing the end of the car. He stepped out and ran inside.

Once there, he found the nearest employee he could. "SBPD," he said, flashing the badge. "Where is the auctioneer?"

"I-in the l-lounge," the terrified man said, pointing.

Lassiter took off for the left, finding the room marked 'Lounge.' He knocked, drawing his gun just in case. "SBPD!" he shouted.

Someone opened the door. "Yes?" he asked.

"Are you the auctioneer?" Lassiter asked.

"Yes," the portly man said, confused. "Why? What's wrong?"

"I need you to come with me. It's a matter of life and death," Lassiter said.

Thursday morning dawned. The auctioneer was safe in the police department under almost constant guard. The day was going smoothly.

Lassiter was out on patrol when the call came over the radio. _"Available units, there is a 187 at 702 Windhouse Lane. Repeat: 187 at 702 Windhouse Lane."_

"Fuck," Lassiter moaned, placing the sirens and lights on. He pulled up and walked into the home.

The coroner, photographer, and several units were already there, all of them muttering and conferring with one another.

"Is there a problem here?" Lassiter asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Sir, we just don't know what to make of it," one of the junior officers piped up. He pointed at the man. "Look what it says."

Feeling the dread in him grow, Lassiter moved to see. He accidentally kicked another cassette case. Ignoring it for the moment, Lassiter looked.

Two words were carved into the man's skin. In a bloody parody, they read: _I win._

_

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_

**What'd you think? Most definitely beginnings of creepy, wouldn't you say? Want more, want to print and burn, print and say 'This is what not to write, see?' All those are options! Again, please review with comments, questions, concerns, and/or emotional breakdowns, and see you on Friday!**


	2. Arc 1, Part 2 of 5

**OK, thanks to everyone who reviewed/faved/alerted last chapter! My previous note didn't have anything that needed warning, so you should be pretty good. Just heed the standard warning that these aren't the same Psych characters, they are different.**

**Next chapter should be up on Tuesday. Monday's not gonna have much time between me getting home and then play practice.**

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_1988_

_Shawn sat on a plane with his mother, Madeline. They were on their way to France for Madeline's new job._

"_Now, sweetheart, you can't be mad at me. I just wanted to see my baby boy," Madeline cooed from next to Shawn._

_He snorted and rolled his eyes, turning his head away. "Shouldn't have killed people then, faked letters, or-here's an idea, Mom-apply for visitation!"_

"_Goose, don't do this to your poor mother," Madeline said, clutching her hands to her heart. "You wound me, right here."_

_Shawn looked over, humoring her. "You don't have a heart to wound," he growled._

_Madeline smiled. "True, true," she said. "But if I hadn't gotten you out from Henry's roof, you'd have never gone anywhere. Boys your age should see the world!"_

"_Mom, I'm 10."_

"_Never hurts to start early, does it?" she laughed._

2010

Shawn thought back to that memory as he sat in his old room. That laugh had chilled him to the bone, but eventually he'd gotten used to it, garnered one just like it. And he'd made his first two kills. Just as satisfying as she'd promised.

"Ah, mother o' mine, where would I have been without you?" he murmured to the ceiling as he lay back. "Although…"

This caused Shawn to sit up suddenly. "Head rush," he moaned, sagging back on his bed. It passed quickly, and he grinned as he stood.

* * *

"Where're you going?" Henry asked, not looking up from his paper as Shawn came down the stairs.

"Just…out," Shawn said a bit lamely. "Remember, if the police come, I'm not here."

"Yeah, yeah. Cut the crap, Shawn. I was a cop for years until your mother got custody of you. And that bitch hasn't let it go since."

"Hey, don't talk about her like that," Shawn said, a steely glint in his blue-green eyes.

Henry rolled his eyes and set down the newspaper. "Listen, Shawn, you would've said the same thing if a) I'd let you and b) if you even knew that word when you were, what, 6? 7?"

"I was 7, Dad," Shawn growled. "You aren't that old."

"You're right," Henry groaned. He placed his hands over his eyes, ears, and mouth in the _See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil_ gesture. "I didn't see, hear, or say anything. All right?"

"Yes," Shawn said simply, heading out the back door.

Henry picked his paper up again. _He won't forgive you. I made sure of that,_ Madeline's voice in his head said.

"Yeah, yeah," Henry said, aware he was talking to a voice in his head. "I know you did."

* * *

Lassiter shook his head. "I know we got the right guy. I damn well knew it!" He slammed his fist into the nearby table. "This sicko was supposed to go after the fucking auctioneer, but did he? No fucking way! This bastard knows what he's doing. That is a motherfucking scary idea!"

"Uh, sir?" the junior officer called.

"What is it, uh…" Lassiter searched for his identification tag.

"McNab, sir, Buzz McNab," the officer, McNab, said.

"Right, McNab. What is it?"

"Well, ah, sir, we need to find the killer, don't we?"

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "What a wonderful idea, McNab. Now, tell me. Have you searched for prints?"

"No, sir?" McNab asked, confused.

"How about read what the writing said, hmm? Then maybe you would've known that there are no fucking leads to catch this fucker!" Lassiter screamed the last sentence, spit flying in his fury. "I could've fucking stopped him if I'd figured it out. Who the hell is this guy anyway?"

"His name is Thomas Reynolds. He's a world-famous watch collector. He also will make a few of his own-not often, but sometimes. But not just anybody gets them. Only those who bid the highest get it, and the watches he makes go for millions. In fact," the coroner continued, "this house of his was built last year. In honor of his hobby, he had the builders construct this home on a giant wheel, almost. It turns once a day when he's making a watch."

Lassiter had a realization. _I'll make a watch here and there. I don't leave it anywhere. I'll take you out and make you spin, but when it's done you'll never win._

"God damn it," Lassiter moaned. The riddle made sense now. _I need to step it up._ Lassiter began for the door, but stopped and went back for the tape case. "Get his body out as soon as you're done. Call me if you find anything, and I mean _anything_, that might help with this case."

"Oh, yes sir!" McNab said, excited for one reason or another.

"Yeah, you be cheerful now until this becomes old hat for you," Lassiter muttered as he stepped out the door.

"What do you have, Detective?" Vick asked as she came up the steps.

"A body that says 'I win,' a rookie who is way to bushy-tailed, and another tape," Lassiter said, holding up said tape.

"I see," Vick said, looking at him strangely. "Let's get back to the station and listen to it then."

* * *

It was actually over two hours later that Lassiter, Vick, and O'Hara were able to listen to the tape. The coroner found the murder weapon buried deep within the body. The knife used to carve up the body was nowhere to be found, as with the previous murder. McNab had found a shoeprint, but it was hard to pinpoint as the photographer had the same pair.

So with the three huddled into Vick's office, Lassiter pressed play once more.

"_Lassie! I knew you just couldn't stay away. Too bad about losing the first round; I made it as simple as pie. While I don't quite see how pie is simple, let's get to the point: You need to present more of a challenge._

"_Let me try this. For every person you save, I will give a clue to my identity. It won't be easy to find me once you have it, but hey, it's a bit more of a level playing field._

"_So long, Lassie-face. I look forward to giving up the first letter of my name to you. Hugs and kisses. See you Sunday."_ There was a sound of lips smacking in a mocking kiss, then that laugh again. It sent shivers down Lassiter's spine.

"He is a twisted S.O.B, isn't he?" Vick muttered. "One damn piece of work."

"Yeah," O'Hara said. "I mean, imagine if he used this for good! Or, you know, our side."

"We'd have a hell of a police officer, that's for sure," Lassiter muttered, preoccupied with the riddle before him.

_Don't make this harder than it needs to be._

_I'm going to try to make you see._

_This search isn't hard,_

_You're just not looking at the right card._

_Take a peek at the hand_

_For it will tell you where I stand._

_The issue isn't right, it's left._

_And just a hint-look in the cleft._

"Poker player," O'Hara said, reading over Lassiter's shoulder, which was a feat in itself as Lassiter had a good 6 inches on her.

"How can you tell?" Lassiter asked, turning his blue eyes on her.

She shrugged. "Cards, hands, sounds like it should be poker. You always go left in poker when you play. And only one person calls the pot a cleft."

"Don Wheely," Vick and Lassiter exclaimed at the same time.

* * *

Lassiter knocked on the door of Don Wheely. "Mr. Wheely, open up!" he called. "SBPD!" He turned to O'Hara. "Go around and see if you can find an open door or indication that someone's home."

"Yes, sir!" she said, holding her gun in front of her and sweeping as she ran around the left corner.

Just then the door opened. "Yes?" Don Wheely asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he drew the bathrobe tighter.

"Honey, who is it?" a voice asked. A woman that Lassiter presumed was the wife came out.

"Detective Carlton Lassiter, SBPD. Sir, madam, unfortunately I'm going to have to ask you to gather a few clothing articles and come with me. Your immediate family is in danger."

"Don, I told you that gambling in poker of yours would bite you in the ass!" Mrs. Wheely said, swatting at the man.

"No, ma'am. It's worse. Your husband has become the newest target in the recent murder investigations," Lassiter said. He holstered his gun. "O'Hara!" he called.

"Don is the target?" she asked as O'Hara came around the side. Don disappeared inside.

"You found them?" she asked, holstering her gun as well.

"No, I'm talking to some random people who are at the Wheely home," Lassiter said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

Don came back. "Maggie, I have some clothes. We need to go with them," he said.

Maggie sighed. "OK, fine. Let's go," she murmured.

* * *

It was an agonizing few days until Sunday came. Lassiter was in his early morning clothing with a cup of coffee in his hand as he stepped out to pick up the Sunday paper. But instead, there was another tape.

"Damn it," Lassiter groaned. "It's too damn early for this."

But he picked it up and set it into the ancient player he still had from when he actually had time to listen to these things. The man behind this obviously was nostalgic.

"All right, man, I am in need of some info," Lassiter said as he set the tape to play.

"_Now you're getting it, Lassie! Don't worry, I only target people once. The Wheely couple is safe to go home now._

"_However, you are still awaiting something, am I correct? Ah, yes, a clue to my identity. There are two S's, one in each part of my name, but there are three S sounds. Does that make sense for you? I hope so._

"_One more easy riddle before I get a bit harder again,"_ cooed the voice. Lassiter cocked his head. Why did the voice just coo at him?

"_You know where to find it. I hope we meet face-to-face someday, as I am sure you do. Goodbye, Lassiter. You are garnering more respect each day from me."_ The tape cut with no laughter.

"First for everything," Lassiter mumbled. His fingers fumbled to get the note, but he got it. He read it as he called the station.

"Chief? The Wheely family is in no danger. I'm skeptical, but our suspect let me know over tape."

_Keep it real my friend._

_Your journey has just begun; you must bend._

_Follow the trail laid for you_

_And this will be just as easy to get through._

"What the hell? There is nothing substantial to this," Lassiter muttered, setting it aside to finish his coffee.

Not two minutes after he called Vick, she called him again. "No one can find the Wheelys," she said. "They were here last night, then vanished."

"Oh no," Lassiter muttered.

"My sentiments exactly. Go find them."

Fifteen minutes was all it took for Lassiter to get across town to the Wheely home, after getting dressed of course. He knocked, but found the door swung open.

Maggie and Don Wheely were in their bedroom, cuts all over their bodies. A bloody note was scribbled on the mirror; Lassiter could see it in the reflection of another mirror in the bedroom.

He walked in. The blood was obviously fresh; just put there if his nose served as an indicator. It still dripped down the smooth surface.

"_I said they were safe. I never said when it started, did I? Always follow to the letter, Lassie,"_ the note said.

Lassiter stood straight. "Chief?" he said after he dialed his phone. "We got two more for you."

* * *

**I surprise even myself. And weird myself out. Heh. I'm thinking that it was supposed to be worse almost…**

**Again, see ya on Tuesday, and have a great weekend everybody!**


	3. Arc 1, Part 3 of 5

**Yep, first big warning chapter. Be aware: This chapter contains graphic violence and a murder scene. Read it if you like, just be warned: IT IS AT YOUR OWN RISK! I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE! It is in a section all to its own, you may skip it if you wish as it is describing his murder. It is not terribly important that you read it, but it may contain things that may disturb others. I said this would happen, and it is now. Just to forewarn you that it is in this chapter. The start of it will be blocked off with a double line with 'Warning' printed between them. You can skip right to the next line if you don't want to read it.**

**Also, I changed the story title. This one suits it much better. It's based on the expression 'I'm so hungry, I could eat *_something_*,' replacing _something_ with what you would like to eat. For example, _I'm so hungry, I could eat a horse_, but I made it murder instead of eat. Get it? Ha, ha, yeah, that really wasn't funny.****

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"People, this is not an ordinary serial killer," Vick said to the assembled force. "The man doing this is sadistic and obviously enjoys killing the people. Be on the alert." Several people snickered at her redundancy, but a glare silenced them. The way she spoke was not their concern for today.

"We have gotten four messages from him, not counting the ones written in skin," Lassiter said, taking up the briefing. "Three are riddles, designed to keep us guessing. One was written on a mirror in blood. Now, as well as being a horrible poem, we have an active riddle. We have until Tuesday. Here it is." Lassiter took a breath, then read:

"'_Keep it real my friend. Your journey has just begun; you must bend. Follow the trail laid for you and this will be just as easy to get through._'"

An officer in the back raised his hand. "Trail laid and easy to get through? Sounds like you might be going hiking."

"'You?'" Lassiter repeated, raising an eyebrow. He didn't wait for an answer. "However, it does seem likely. What trail, though? Most of them are pretty easy."

"Maybe it isn't a hiking trail, but a trail he's created," O'Hara said.

"Excuse me! Coming through!"

"Who the hell are you?" Lassiter asked the African-American forcing his way through the crowd.

"Burton Guster, INTERPOL operative," he said, flashing the badge. "Call me Gus. And I think I might know who your killer is."

Lassiter laughed. "What could you possibly know about him?" he asked.

Gus wasn't amused. "Did you run the writing through an analyzer?" he asked instead.

"Uh, no. We don't have the funds for that kind of thing," Vick answered, grasping the note from Lassiter and handing it to Gus.

He looked at it for only a moment. Time did not cause him to forget the childish scrawl. "I know exactly who this is," he said.

* * *

Shawn lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Discarded bloody gloves were in the trash at the end of the driveway and Henry was out fishing.

_Knock knock knock_

"I wonder who that could be?" Shawn wondered, not moving from his prone position.

"SBPD! Open up in there, Mr. Spencer!" someone yelled.

"Ooh, it's Lassie-face. He doesn't sound too happy," Shawn said, then laughed.

"We'll use force if we have to, but it will make your life much simpler if you just cooperate!" Lassiter yelled from below.

Shawn stood, smiling. He bent in the middle of the floor, finding the crawlspace he'd only just discovered when he returned to Santa Barbara. Sliding himself in, he got the floor in place just as the front door burst open.

* * *

Lassiter was in the door as soon as two other officers knocked it open. He drew his gun, swinging in either direction. He motioned for others to come in and sweep the house. McNab, O'Hara, and Lassiter himself all went upstairs.

Lassiter soon found himself in what was obviously a young boy's room. Posters of rock bands were all over: Iron Maiden, The Police, Guns 'n' Roses, Metallica, AC/DC, and Genesis to name a few of them. There was a box full of pennies on the bedside table, but nothing incriminating until he opened the closet.

Instead of finding children's clothing, as he'd expected (hey, the room obviously hadn't changed with the decades, people!), there were adult clothes. Shirts, jeans, the basics.

"I've got something!" Lassiter shouted.

O'Hara, the nearest, came running in. "What is it?" she asked.

"Room hasn't left the '80's, but the clothing did," he answered, gesturing to the open closet.

"That's…not unusual, Lassiter. I mean, I still have posters of bands from when _I_ grew up in the 1990's," she said, looking at him in confusion. "Are you feeling all right? Or has this been getting to you?"

Lassiter's brow furrowed, and he tried to get her to understand. "I mean, I know it really shouldn't bother me, but really! The kid who lives here either hasn't set foot in this room _since_ the '80's or he really, really likes the hell of a time-capsule he's got going up here."

"Lassiter, come on. Nobody's here."

Lassiter looked again, then sucked in a breath as he closed his eyes. "Yeah, you're right," he said. "Let's go!" he called as he stepped out of the room.

O'Hara let her eyes wander around the room one last moment. "It's doubtful the murderer would even live here!" she muttered, following her superior downstairs.

* * *

Shawn waited until he heard the police cars roll away. He lifted the boards, coughing from the dust in his hiding place. "Time-capsule?" he muttered, looking around. "The room hasn't been redecorated since then! It's only been thirty years!" He grinned, taking out the face-painting set behind the jeans on the top of his dresser.

"OK, Lassie, you need to take a quick peek," he muttered, going to the bathroom next door.

* * *

Lassiter sat at his desk, staring at the Google search. He was trying desperately to figure the riddle out as it was only a few more hours until Tuesday. His phone rang.

"What the…" Lassiter trailed, looking at the picture message. It was of a man, facial features hidden by face paint and fake hair. But what got him the most were two things: a) the resemblance in face paint to the Joker, and b) the location.

"I've got something!" he yelled, jumping up. In the desk next to him, O'Hara flinched at Lassiter's outburst, but came over to look.

"I know that location!" she cried, taking the phone. "I've hiked there before."

"Chief! Chief!" Lassiter yelled, careening to Vick's office. "We have a face and location!"

Vick looked up. "Good," she said, standing to look at the phone still clutched in O'Hara's hand. "Face is indistinguishable, location findable," she said. "Go!"

The two raced for the door, barreling past all other officers. Lassiter reached the Crown Vic first, taking the driver's side. O'Hara climbed in next to him, activating the lights and sirens.

Lassiter looked over at his partner as they reached the country stretch. "OK, where are we headed?" he asked.

"The old railroad trails," she replied.

They continued to drive in a fast-paced silence, O'Hara giving directions as needed.

"OK, we need to look for a man-made trail, recent," Lassiter said as he cut the engine of the Crown Vic.

O'Hara looked for a moment, then pointed. "There!" she said.

"How the hell do you know?" he asked.

Sheepishly, she shrugged and reddened. "I hike here a lot," she answered.

"Good thing you do," he said, congratulating her in his own way. He led the way into the brush, finding the path low but well-kept; it was obviously made today or yesterday.

"Someone took a lot of time to do this," O'Hara whispered.

"Yeah, and that somebody is-" Lassiter was cut off as they reached a home.

"I think we found the next victims," he said instead.

* * *

Unlike the Wheely home, the four-member Tomlin household were much more eager to get out once they found they were targeted. All four had bags packed quickly and followed the two officers to the Crown Vic.

"To be honest, I really shouldn't be doing this," Lassiter sighed. "But harsh circumstances stand. You'll all have to pack into the back unless someone wants to sit up here; I have a seat in the middle up here."

"Max, why don't you sit next to the officers?" Jeff, the father, said to his son.

The car ride was silent, for the most part, until O'Hara broke it. "I'm really sorry about this, everyone, but you're going to have to stay at the station until Wednesday, at least," she said apologetically.

"That's just fine, dear. Anything to keep the family safe," Jenny said, patting her husband's arm. "Safety is much more of a priority right now."

Lassiter snarled a "Damn it!" under his breath as he swerved to avoid a truck on the wrong side of the road.

"Lassiter, what happened?" O'Hara asked her partner.

"Guy tried to run us off!" he growled. "I want to go after him, but a civilian's safety is priority." This time, he turned sirens on.

* * *

The day and night went smoothly, and Lassiter was stepping out his door to go to the station when he found another recording. He grabbed it and took it with him.

Lassiter, Vick, and O'Hara were in Vick's office, again. They stooped to listen to the message.

"_My, my, Lassie! You are quite the think tank, especially with your lovely partner in tow. I do suppose my message helped you?_

"_But, since you know my name, I can't really give you that, now can I? No, I can't. I know Gus helped you, and I know you were in my room. I was there. Couldn't you find me? Ha. They called you a world-famous detective, one well on his way to becoming an international agent like Gus. I'm disappointed. I'd hoped you be more of a challenge, but you are child's play to me. Walked right overhead of me._

"_So, now you know my name and where I live. You have a voice and you have handwriting. You've seen a picture of me. Your questions beg: is this my real voice? What do I look like without makeup? And believe me, I haven't done anything to warrant facial recognition._

"_Goodbye, Lassie. Please: try to be more of a challenge."_

"That fucker," Lassiter muttered. "There's barely anything! We can't find him, we don't have concrete evidence. We don't even know if this is his real voice!"

"Lassiter, calm down. We need to concentrate," Vick said.

"What would you have me do? People are dying out there, and I can't do a damn thing about it except play his game!"

"Save the ones you can. Try to find the ones you might be able to save," she answered simply.

Lassiter was breathing heavily in anger, but he knew what the chief was saying. "Yeah, I know," he muttered. "He didn't even tell us how much fucking time we have!" he screamed suddenly.

"Then let's get to work," she said, handing him the note.

_Think you know me; guess again_

_This time you don't get a bargain_

_Take one step at a time_

_Find the man of the mime_

_He's not hard to find; just look for a nose_

_He'll be holding a garden hose_

"Mime," Lassiter said immediately. "He has something with his nose and will be holding a hose. Let's go."

"Wait, wait, wait. How do you know where he'll be?" O'Hara asked.

Lassiter looked at her in confusion. "There's only one place where there are mimes in Santa Barbara," he said.

Vick only shrugged at O'Hara's questioning glance, watching as Lassiter exited.

* * *

The Crown Vic pulled into the Chase Palm Park, where there were already several cars. Lassiter stepped out, pulling off his sunglasses.

"You know? Why the hell are we even doing this?" he wondered aloud.

"Because you want to save others? Maybe, I don't know, catch the psycho killer that's on the loose?" O'Hara asked her partner sarcastically.

He looked at her with widened eyes. "There is no need for sarcasm," he said, then looked around.

"There," O'Hara said, pointing. A mime stood there, miming a garden hose. He was stepping back, as if using a high-pressured system. His nose was ridiculously large, like a clown's nose but in black.

"Sir!" Lassiter said, coming over. He flashed his badge. "I'm Detective Carlton Lassiter of the SBPD. This is Detective O'Hara. We are here to-hey!"

Lassiter tore after the fleeing mime. "What the hell? You're not in trouble that we know of! Just the target of murder!"

He had to hand it to the mime; he was quite fast. The stripe-shirted man ducked between trees, bobbing and weaving to throw the two off his trail.

"What is wrong with him?" O'Hara asked, barely managing to keep up with Lassiter's longer strides.

"I have no idea," Lassiter panted. "But it looks like he's guilty of just more than being a murder target."

Eventually, however, the detectives realized it was hopeless; the mime was gone.

"Well, that was a bust," Lassiter said as they trudged back to the park.

"Oh, now who's using sarcasm?" O'Hara demanded.

* * *

_1994_

_Shawn, now 16, watched in interest as his mother demonstrated on the dummy. "All you have to do to make them tortured but not die until you're ready," she said, "is keep it gentle on the torture technique. You want them to hurt, but not wish they were dead. Not completely anyway." She then slashed the throat, causing a warning to emit from the speakers. "Your turn."_

"_Yes ma'am," he said, standing to try it himself._

_

* * *

_

Shawn sat cross-legged on his bed, quietly staring at the map and tracing his route, burning it into his memory for tonight.

"Left off Oakfield," he murmured, unconsciously stating the last of the directions in his head. Having it committed to memory, he folded the map and stood, ducking so as to not hit his head on his ceiling. He stepped off the bed, pausing to give a full stretch. Shawn grinned as his joints cracked, relieving some of the tension he'd felt.

Crossing the room in several strides, he lifted up the boards to his hidden area. Shawn grasped the black bag that lay innocently in the hollow. The floorboard was replaced with the knowledge that everything that would be needed was in its place.

The footsteps were near silent from years of tutelage under the hand of Madeline Spencer, but Henry was not to be denied his own due credit in this lesson. Shawn had learned it long before his mother had gotten custody of him.

"And where are you going?" Henry asked his son, not looking up but simply sensing that the young man was there.

Shawn paused, considering his answer. "Out," he replied simply, choosing not to elaborate.

"Bull. Shit." Henry folded his paper, glaring at the stopped form in his hallway. "You can't lie to me, Shawn. Where. The hell. Are you. Going?"

"Don't concern yourself, Dad." Shawn waved at his father, once again moving. "I have things to do, people to see, meetings to not be late for. I'll be in late."

Henry, while not as young as he used to be, moved with relative ease and speed to block his son's way. "This isn't up for discussion, Shawn. Tell me where you're going!"

Shawn frowned briefly at his father's raised tone. "There's no need to yell," he admonished mildly, stepping around the irate man. "I'm just going out, OK? Jeez."

The door was closed firmly before Henry could formulate his reply.

* * *

**WARNING!**_ This is the section you may wish to avoid. Please be advised!_

**_

* * *

_**

Shawn breathed the fresh air, already satisfied just being a wall away from his father. The man was a sneaky bastard, that was for sure.

_You'd think I'd go out every single night and bring a different person to bed or get wasted_, Shawn thought, straddling the motorbike. Helmet forsaken, the kickstand was pushed away from the pavement and the silence shattered as the bike revved its way into the sound spectrum.

Shawn was only partially paying attention as he guided his bike through the streets of Santa Barbara at past ten at night; he had other things on his mind.

_The next victim should be someone easy to find with a hard riddle. I could always use number three-no, that's for emergencies, like him getting too close. His partner…she looks like a feisty chick. She would be a lot of fun._

Shawn broke himself away from his thoughts as he turned onto Cherry Tree Drive, where tonight's victim resided. Only going ten feet, Shawn cut the engine and grasped his black bag. The headlight on the motorcycle was muted with a cloth, and Shawn quickly walked the remaining spaces to the drive of his intended target for the evening.

Shawn felt nothing as he stared at the muted colors of the home. If he'd been younger, he'd have wished for this to be _his_ home, with his father and maybe his mother. If she hadn't been crazy. But he no longer felt the fleeting sadness, the pang that hit his chest nonexistent anymore.

"All right, Spencer, no need to dwell on what-ifs," Shawn muttered, hoisting the bag onto his shoulder. "You have a job to do."

Mindful of light that bathed the drive from the streetlamp, Shawn pulled his small knife from the bag, keeping it hidden as he walked around the back, scoping the home as his mother taught.

He knocked on the front door as soon as he was around front, and it was answered a couple minutes later.

"Wha…" the man trailed off, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed nervously at the sight of the knife.

"Inside. No noise. You wouldn't live long enough for it to be more than a backfiring car, if it even woke anyone," Shawn murmured, gently pressing the blade onto the man's thin shirtsleeve; within seconds, the shirt around the small cut was saturated with blood.

The man whimpered at the pain (cuts tend to do that, and his was still bleeding; he obviously didn't handle blood well), but turned and allowed Shawn to follow him into the home.

"Turn out the lights," Shawn whispered. "Act like you are going to bed. Go into your bedroom and wait for me."

"What if I refuse?"

Shawn chuckled; the man had obviously grown a pair in the moments he'd been in pain.

"I…wouldn't advise it," he said. "It wouldn't end very well for either of us, but for you perhaps…_slightly_ more so."

The man didn't back down. "Listen, Jack. This is MY fucking place, my one and only sanctuary. You can't just order me-"

"Listen," Shawn finally said, patience wearing thin. "The longer you keep me waiting here and your lights on, the more painful this will be for you. I'm not one to make idle threats: I will not hesitate to kill you, right here and right now. But, as I am a fairly generous man, I will forgive this outburst. If you wish, I can kill you now, but I wouldn't want to ruin this carpet."

"I'm not going anywhere," he said stubbornly, crossing his arms and hiding a wince as it jostled the wound.

Shawn shrugged. "Suit yourself," he whispered, reaching out with the knife.

The swipe was easily avoidable, but looking anywhere but at Shawn completely threw the man off his guard. He stumbled, holding his bicep with a grimace on his face.

The five-inch blade had been thrust in almost the entire way, leaving it smeared with blood. The gash hadn't been helped any when the man jumped, only allowing it to travel down the arm and leave a rather long and deep wound.

"Will you cooperate now?" Shawn whispered into the man's ear. He nodded, oddly complacent.

"Good. Now, walk to the bedroom and act like you are getting ready to retire again."

"'Retire,'" he muttered, but complying with the order. "What is he, a fucking ancient English man?"

"You'll never know, Raymond Hayes." The voice, although not quite unexpected, was enough to startle the man into a hurried pace.

Ten minutes later, it was complete. The lights were out and blinds drawn. Hayes eyed Shawn warily as the younger quietly paced the bedroom.

"You know, Mr. Hayes," Shawn began conversationally, "I don't intend to hurt you too badly. Well, not enough for you to _wish_ for death. Just enough-" He pulled out a larger knife from his bag- "for you to want the pain to end. And I shall grant your wish. When I'm ready."

He didn't allow Hayes to say another word as he gagged the full-time mime to keep him from screaming. Although, from the way Hayes' eyes darted, you'd have thought Shawn was going to allow him to find an escape route. Pushing him into the recliner, Shawn tied him down tightly.

"Oh, Mr. Hayes," Shawn chided, beginning his first incision, the right calf. The gag kept the man from crying out, but it was a strain. The seven-inch blade made nasty cuts in its own right, and Shawn was sure he'd missed major arteries while still grazing bone.

"I did hope it wouldn't come to this, you know. Lassiter was supposed to take you into protective custody. But, of course, you had to run. Running always makes them look guilty. What were you hiding in your consciousness, hmm?" As Shawn was speaking, he made the second and third cuts on Hayes' thigh and pelvis, respectively. The man bucked from the

Shawn began to move up the body, adding several new cuts along the way. "What was it, a murder? Larceny? I do believe that this means we'll never know."

An hour later, the deed was done. Shawn took a moment to use his glove, coated in blood, to leave a note for Lassiter on the mirror, then left, discarding everything into a plastic bag for later disposal. All good criminal masterminds knew you never left evidence behind other than the victim's own.

* * *

"_All available responders, we have a 187 at 011 Cherry Tree Drive. Repeat: 187 at 011 Cherry Tree Drive."_

Lassiter heard this over his home scanner as he was getting shoes on. He sighed. _Not another one,_ he prayed desperately.

As soon as he entered the residence, he groaned. Lassiter snapped on latex gloves and prepared to enter the blood-stained bedroom. He paused, looking at the mirror.

_Getting close, but not yet._

_

* * *

_

**I wrote that murder scene three times, you know. It was gonna be a lot more graphic and probably intense, but I decided that I was gonna do it differently. I hope you enjoyed it, weren't too freaked out by it (I really don't want people complaining that it was too graphic or there wasn't enough warning, I did give you quite a bit of warning). And I think that chapter four, permitting if I've finished it or not, should be up either Thursday or Friday. Sound good?**

**Also, next chapter requires the use of your patience and imagination, and the ability of suspended disbelief, and if you have any questions about the next chapter, this chapter, or the reason you're gonna need your logical minds to switch off for a little bit, let me know through review or message.**

**And I keep forgetting-if you'd like a short preview of the next chapter (like, 100 words or something, I'm not sure yet) let me know and I'd be happy to give you something!**


	4. Arc 1, Part 4 of 5

**Bonus points if you're able to spot the reference to another show in here! Not the one obvious one, though, the one I'm thinking of is much more subtle.**

**Translations for the French are at the bottom of the chapter. Translations made possible by Google Translate. I apologize if it isn't correct, though.**

**And honestly? This chapter and next, at least, are gonna need that disbelief and patience.**

**

* * *

**

"Is there a positive ID?" Vick asked, standing in the coroner's office with Lassiter.

"Yes, ma'am. The victim is Raymond Hayes, a mime at Chase Palm Park. Twenty-five, single, and works part-time at the local diner near Chase Palm." The coroner scratched his head. "Honestly, I don't know what to make of it. He wasn't important, just kind of there. I'm wondering why he was a target of this guy."

"That's a question we'd all like answered," Lassiter sighed. He turned and said, "Chief, I'm going to go listen to that tape. Are you coming?"

"Yes, Detective. I'll meet you there." When Lassiter had left, Vick turned to the coroner. "Tom, I know that you aren't supposed to become involved in an investigation unless there's a body, but would you consider…"

Tom shook his head. "I'm sorry, Chief. Wish I could, but the owner would have my hide. I'm the lead investigator of deaths here, I can't just up and leave. There's only one other qualified official, and you wouldn't believe how many bodies we actually get."

"I understand," Vick said, leaving. Tom watched his old friend leave, suddenly wishing he had gone with her to the academy instead of medical school.

* * *

Lassiter sat in the chair, standing as Vick came in. She waved him down and pressed PLAY without a word.

"_Oh, Lassie! Je suis déçu, vraiment. Je m'attendais à mieux. Je veux dire, tu étais si, si proche!"Comme ma nouvelle langue? Je l'ai trouvé... montage, pour les assassiner prochaine. J'espère que vous apprécierez crêpes."Si vous vous demandez à tous, je leanred ce pendant que ma mère et moi avons vécu en France, pour au moins 10 ans, plus encore que cela. Le temps semble juste de disparaître quand on apprend à commettre assassiner."J'espère que vous comprendre cela dans le temps. Je ne vais pas être indulgent sur le temps de cette victime. Vous avez jusqu'à mercredi soir, et c'est déjà le matin. Tick tock, tick tock…"_

"What the hell?" Lassiter asked as the recording cut. "That was fucking perfect French! Accent and all!"

Vick shook her head. "I don't know." Opening the door, she yelled, "Somebody get me a translator in here!"

Five minutes later, three sat in the cramped office. "Mr. Goldwin, perhaps you can translate this for us?" Vick asked, pressing the PLAY button after rewinding the tape.

Goldwin listened to the first paragraph, pressing stop and translating as it went along. "'Oh, Lassie! I'm disappointed, really. I expected better. I mean, you were so, so close!

"'Like my new language? I found it…fitting, for the next murder. I hope you enjoy crepes.

"'If you're wondering at all, I learned this while my mother and I lived in France, for at least 10 years, more even than that. Time just seems to disappear when you learn to commit murder.

"'I hope you figure this one out in time. I won't be so lenient on time with this victim. You have until Wednesday evening, and it's already morning. Tick tock, tick tock…'"

Lassiter smiled, a complete character change for him. His body convulsed into chuckles.

"Detective, are you quite all right?" Vick asked, concerned.

"Yeah, I'm perfectly fine," Lassiter said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Oh no he didn't," he added in a breathy gasp.

"Did _what_, exactly?" Goldwin asked, confused.

"He just went for the big guns, the bastard," Lassiter said, standing abruptly. "Chief, I'm going to need some rooms prepped." He took a few steps and stopped in the doorway. "Know what? Scratch that; I have a better plan."

O'Hara stood, automatically following her partner. "Where we going?" she asked.

"The only Frenchman in town. And we're gonna end this now," Lassiter said, sliding across the hood of the Crown Vic, Bo Duke style.

* * *

_1990_

"_Mom, why do I have to learn French again?" Shawn asked plaintively, shutting the book._

_Madeline regarded her son intently. "Shawnie, do you want to have to keep going to the Help Room just to know what your homework says?" Her implied meaning was clear._

"_Guess not," Shawn said, averting his eyes. He looked out the window. "Who's that?"_

_Madeline gave a cursory glance, then did a double take. "That's…an old enemy of mine," she murmured. Pointing at the book, she snapped, "Study." She bustled out of the house and greeted the man, taking him around back. Shawn knew what would happen to him, and it wasn't going to be pretty. Best to just study and stay out of it._

_

* * *

_

Shawn coughed, a wet sound almost, and stopped. Puzzled, he touched his fingers to his lips, breathing hoarse and very uneven. Something liquid was on his fingertips, lips, coming up when he coughed. In the dim lighting, he saw it was something serious.

Blood.

Shawn couldn't stop coughing, no matter how much he wanted to. He fell to the floor, drawing in wet gasps.

Before he passed out, Shawn began to remember…

* * *

_1991_

_Shawn looked around the empty house, wondering once again where Madeline went. His eyes widened at a small noise, and he jumped into self-defense mode._

"_Hello?" he asked, trying not to let them know he was approaching terrified rapidly._

_No answer floated to him, but a creak behind him made him whip around. Seeing nothing, he tried to call out again, this time in French._

"_Bonjour? Est-ce qu'il ya quelqu'un ici? Je jure devant Dieu, j'ai un fusil, et je n'ai pas peur de l'utiliser!" _**(1)**

_Shawn waited a moment, then heard something else creak and felt the hairs on his neck stiffen in response._

"_Vous savez? Vas te faire encule! Je n'ai pas besoin de voir que vous sachiez que vous êtes ici!" Shawn shouted into the seemingly-empty home. Stepping quietly, Shawn managed to get to the basement stairs without tripping._** (2)**

_Shawn grasped the rail of the stairs, cautious to go down. But a louder creak got him moving, thundering down the stairs and all attempts to remain quiet thrown out the window._

"_Venez, venez, à chaque ou qui que vous soyez…vous ne me fait pas peur…" Shawn sing-songed when he reached the bottom of the steps. He felt along the wall for the gun safe. _**(3)**

_He felt a cloth-covered hand over his face. Shawn tried to cry out, the sound terribly muffled. The scent from the cloth began to affect him; Shawn felt his eyes begin to droop, and his struggles slowed until they were little more than spasms. The last thing he remembered was being carried out into the chilly air…_

_

* * *

_

Lassiter knocked on the door, waiting with impatience even though the sun was barely reaching noon.

"Ah, yes-hello?" the answering man asked, his English fractured with a cultured accent.

"Mr. Benoit?"

"Ah, oui? How may I help you?" **(4)**

Lassiter flashed his badge at the man. "SBPD. Your life is in danger, and we need you to come with us."

"I, ah, do not believe that to be necessary, Detective Lassiter."

"Oh?" Lassiter asked dangerously. "You have dealt with a serial murderer before, then, Mr. Benoit? Or do you know him?"

"Serial murderer?"

_Damn it, this man just doesn't get it!_ "Killer?" Lassiter prompted.

"Oui, I know what a serial murderer is, Detective," Benoit said irritably. He chattered something in French over his shoulder, and a young girl came out, no more than seven. She carried a small black bag on her shoulder, lugging another suitcase behind her.

"My daughter, Jeanne. In my line of work, we must always be ready to move." Benoit's larger hand gently encompassed his daughter's own as he took the suitcase with his other hand. "We are ready."

* * *

The ride was silent as they went to the police department, each in the vehicle wondering what the entire debacle was about, Lassiter and O'Hara wondering why this man, who was a well-respected Frenchman, would need to carry a suitcase, Benoit wondering if this was connected to his dealings, and poor little Jeanne wondering if her bears would make it through the night without their doctor's care.

Safely at the police station, however, had the four scrambling to get out of the way as several armed and riot gear-protected officers scrambled out the door.

"O'Hara, find them a room!" Lassiter shouted over the extremely loud din in the station, sprinting around desks to reach the chief.

Also dressed in riot gear, Vick looked completely different, harder even. She turned quickly to her head detective. "Lassiter, get your riot gear on. We have a situation at the Spencers' residence, and we have it on very good authority that our killer may be the reason."

"Riot gear for a bust, Chief? Thought that only came out when there was a damn huge crowd," Lassiter asked, doing as instructed however.

"There is one damn huge crowd, Detective, and we have to go NOW. Leave O'Hara here to protect the people you brought in."

Lassiter made his way to where O'Hara waited with Benoit and his daughter. "We have a situation involving our suspect. Chief wants you here to protect the Benoits."

"Can do," she nodded.

The riot gear on in record time, Lassiter made it out of the police station as the last one out, his Crown Vic following the line of patrol cars ahead of him.

* * *

**1:**_ Hello? Is there anyone here? I swear to God, I have a gun and I'm not afraid to use it!_

**2:**_ You know? Fuck you! I don't need to see you to know you're here!_

**3:**_ Come out, come out wherever or whoever you are…you don't scare me…_

**4:**_ Yes?_ (obvious though)

* * *

**So? Interesting cliffhanger, eh? You'll have to wait for chapter five to see what's up with Shawn, both in memory and in the now. Also, in case you missed it, I'll tell you the answer to the allusion in the start of the next chapter as well.**

**I'm sorry that this one was shorter, but I tried to make up for it with the cliffhangers? Or maybe not. Please don't kill me, a lot of questions will be answered next chapter, and I really need to be alive to type/post it! Speaking of which, Chapter 5 (which deserves capital letters!) will be up Tuesday, Wednesday at the latest. I haven't exactly started chapter five with all my craziness-in-the-schedule business.**


	5. Arc 1, Part 5 of 5

**So, the allusion, if you didn't get it, was to **_**NCIS**_** with Jeanne Benoit and her father René, seasons 4 and 5. And there was a subtle hint that he is an arms dealer (in this story, seeing as he IS one in **_**NCIS**_**), but most people probably missed it in the last chapter. The other, much more obvious one was to Bo Duke of the show **_**Dukes of Hazard**_**, a seventies/eighties show that aired when my parents were kids and that I watched off and on when it was on.**

**All righty folks, this is it! The climax! Not much longer to go! *gets booed off stage, but pokes head back out* Just kidding! This **_**is**_**, however, where what we've covered so far has come to a head and basically draws the first arc to a head. The next arc **_**will**_** be different, possibly longer, with more Lassiter/Henry and Lassiter/Shawn interaction. This is more of a closer chapter, setting us up for the next arc.**

**So, anyway, on to Chapter 5.**

**

* * *

**

Lassiter drifted around the corner, not slowing much in his hurry to be one of the first on-scene.

The scene, as it was, wasn't much. It was the same house that they tried when they were trying to catch the bastard the first time. Dozens of police cars surrounded the building, the lights from an ambulance flashing with no siren.

Different from previously, however, was former police detective Henry Spencer (Lassiter recognized him from when he was a rookie on beat) standing in front, his face set in a grim mask.

"Detective Spencer?" Lassiter asked. Despite the severity of the situation, he couldn't help but be awed to be in the presence of the great, albeit retired, detective.

"What the hell do you want?" Spencer snapped.

Lassiter almost pulled back, but years of training and experience held him in place. "I just wanted a quick update of the situation, sir," he snapped back crisply, feeling like a rookie again. It was exhilarating.

"My son," Spencer said, worry seeping slightly into the man's voice. "He's…sick, or something. I'm not sure. He's just coughing up blood."

Lassiter frowned, deciding that he really needed to get inside. Turning, he headed in the direction of house, only to be stopped by an extremely large crowd of pedestrians.

"You see why we needed riot gear?" Vick asked dryly, suddenly appearing. "No one's gonna let us in for whatever reason. They all want a piece of him, if he doesn't die first."

"Bastard would deserve it, though," Lassiter growled under his breath. Vick glared at him, but didn't say anything as he began to use the riot shield to shove people out of the way. "SBPD! This is a crime scene, people!" he shouted, but it didn't do any good.

Someone stood inside the crowd on the porch, bullhorn at the ready. "We aren't gonna let him kill anymore!" he shouted, even into the horn, voice coming out loud and scratchy. "The police aren't gonna do a damn fucking thing! They're gonna give him a damn slap on the wrist, and that's it! What do we want?"

"Corporal punishment!" "Torture!" "Revenge!" "Death penalty!" was all screamed from the crowd. And the man was just encouraging it, waving his arms in a gesture that signaled that he wanted more.

"HOW THE HELL DO YOU PEOPLE EVEN KNOW THAT HE'S THE MURDERER?" Lassiter screamed over the din, his deep timbre leaving the crowd to muttering again.

"What evidence do you have that he isn't?" he asked into the bullhorn, his voice quiet and silencing the crowd.

"None yet, because your damn boycott, demonstration, whatever the hell you want to call it, won't let us in to see if whoever is in there is injured or not!"

"Fine," the man stated coldly. "If you can't tell us that he is or isn't, we will simply have to see for ourselves. Shall we?" With a roar, the crowd followed him into the house.

"Damn it!" Vick shouted. "Everyone after them. We have to stop them if we can!" The entire SBPD that was assembled forced their way, somehow, through the masses that stockpiled the doors, trying to get to the man in charge and the person they were charged with bringing in in the first place to where he needed to be.

* * *

Dimly, Shawn heard Lassiter yell from outside the house. _Lassie to the rescue_, he though stupidly, an almost drugged fog enveloping his brain. _Snap out of it_, his mind whispered to him. Shawn knew it was important he did, but he couldn't remember why anymore.

_Would you like to go to jail?_ the voice, whoever it was, asked again.

"N-o," he ground out, not even aware he was talking to himself. In a Herculean effort, Shawn pushed himself up just as the door sprang open to his room.

_1991_

_Shawn shivered slightly as he returned to consciousness. He ached all over, and he realized that that sensation was more than likely caused by the cement floor he was laying on._

_Slowly, his strength felt like it was returning, and the teen pushed himself to a sitting position, being careful not to jar himself too much._

_The lingering nauseous feeling from his first wake was gone, and Shawn levered himself up so he was standing. The chill slowly left his limbs, but stayed in his feet, which were bare._

"_Dammit," he muttered as he took in his prison._

_It looked simply like a basement: concrete, supports, a staircase on one side. But there were no windows and it was filled with crates._

_Staggering over to a crate (Shawn had discovered that he didn't have much in the way of balance yet), Shawn picked up the screwdriver someone had obviously carelessly left in between a couple of the crates and pushed down, lifting the lid._

_It was filled with a strange white powder; no smell (he tried that already), and it looked like salt almost, but didn't have the square shape that salt did._

"_Que diable faites-vous?" a voice cried from behind. Shawn spun around. _**(1)**

"_Que faites-vous ici en courant? Quel est votre affaire d'enlèvement moi?" Shawn shouted back at him, hoping that he'd receive an answer._ **(2)**

_Inexplicably, the man switched to very heavily-accented English. "You are the test, Mr. Spencer," he growled, grabbing Shawn's arm tightly. "We are testing this for the French government. You will be doing us-and your country-a favor."_

"_The hell? I'm _AMERICAN_, not French!" Shawn cried._

"_Then think of it as something that we may share with your government," he sneered, roughly shoving Shawn into a side room._

_

* * *

_

Lassiter grabbed Shawn's arm, jerking him out of the memory of something similar. "I don't know why in the hell I'm helping you," he muttered, manhandling him to a sitting position on the bed. "But my barricade on the door won't hold them out much longer."

Roughly, he ripped the boards from the floor, exposing Shawn's hiding place.

Shawn was too delirious to form the question that was in his mind, _How did you find that?_ but he also didn't protest being shoved into it and the boards being thrown back on top.

Blissfully, he passed out, not hearing the anger above.

* * *

Lassiter was not quite sure what was running through his mind when he hid the bastard he'd been trying to catch for almost two weeks, but the guy looked so miserable, with blood dripping from his mouth from coughing so much, that something in Lassiter was touched and he couldn't resist.

It was going to be the death of him.

Even now, as Lassiter faced off against an angry mob and _lied_ about Shawn's whereabouts, he only wanted to help the guy. Why? Still, no idea.

Maybe he felt connected. Stockholm Syndrome, even though he'd never been held captive by him ever, and Shawn didn't take POW's.

The crowd dissipated, and Vick came into the room. "OK, Lassiter, where is he?" she demanded. "I know you lied to the crowd so that they'd go away, but we need to take him in."

"He's not here," Lassiter said after a moment, lying once again. "I was telling the truth. He wasn't here when I got in, maybe he got out the back. That's how I got in, but I didn't see him."

Vick narrowed her eyes at him, but nodded. "Very well; however, I'm afraid I'm going to have to remove you from the case."

"WHAT?" Lassiter screeched-yelled, because Lassiter never screeches.

"You've gotten too obsessed, and you're about ready to crack. Take a week, get your ducks in a row so to speak, and come back to work on the 30th, well-rested and no longer obsessed."

"What makes you think I'm obsessed?"

"I've been noticing steadily now that you've begun to become a bit-manic, about this guy. Every tip you check out, and you did not hesitate in telling your partner to stay at the station while you went to find this guy. Now, really, I don't want you even _near_ the office or even _thinking_ about work until the thirtieth."

Lassiter watched as the SBPD trooped out of the house, then pulled Shawn out from below the floor.

"Do you have any idea what you just cost me?" he grumbled, dragging the limp man out to the Crown Vic.

* * *

**1:** _What the hell are you doing?_

**2:** _What are you running here? What's your deal with kidnapping me?_

_

* * *

_

**Honestly, I started off in a completely different direction than I was originally intending to go, but I think that it might be much more interesting. If my guess is correct, we'll have about 3 arcs total, but I won't ruin it by summarizing each.**

**Sorry that it isn't quite what you all probably had in mind, but it does set us up for the next arc!**

**Now, I told you that I would tell you about this mystery powder: it is fiction, so unless I happened to stumble upon top-secret government things, you will not find it. It's almost like a truth thing, but it's not. It makes the mind of anyone, regardless of age, more pliable to the person who they interact with most. In this case, Shawn's mom was manipulating him into being more like she was-an evil, twisted SOB (though that doesn't really work, does it?). Basically, it's a white powder similar in taste to salt and can be put into food and the person wouldn't know the difference. In my story, it was developed by the French to be somewhat like a truth serum, but this wouldn't really wear off, the person wouldn't even be aware that he/she was spilling secrets, and they could send them back to gather intelligence. It was for use against terrorists, but they found it had a few…side-effects, shall we say, on the person when used short-term.**

**Remember to hit me up with any questions you have or just to say hi! Next chapter will be probably Saturday.**


	6. Arc 2, Part 1 of 5

**So, here is the first part of the second arc, formally known as Chapter 6 *must be said in Morgan Freeman voice for full effect*. It is probably off to a slower start from before, but now we're at the bad boy!Lassiter and hurt-but-ready to kick butt!Shawn part of the story. The action, however, will really start to take off next chapter. I'm not sure how many parts this will be, so once I know for sure, I'll change from a question to a definite number in chapter headings.**

**Hope you enjoy! It may end up being slash or pre-slash by either the end of the arc or the story itself, but hopefully will end with just gen as I'm not best at slash and/or relationship writing in general.**

**

* * *

**

Lassiter wrinkled his nose slightly as he once again peeked in at Shawn. The man was sleeping soundly, his rest no longer interrupted by coughing or nightmares, thank God. Lassiter didn't know if he could handle it if he was suffering from either. His first-aid and bedside manner were not the best at the greatest of times. Who knows what it'd be like now that he was harboring a very-much wanted murder suspect under his roof.

Lassiter clunked around the kitchen, not even bothering to muffle his attempts to make lunch. Or dinner. Whatever you could call it at three-in-the-afternoon.

He was just about to start digging his fork into the quick-to-make butter noodles when Shawn wandered out. His hair stuck up in random spikes, and he was rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

"You're wanted, you know," Lassiter began, about to start ranting the man out, but Shawn beat him to it.

"Yeah yeah, I've been threatening like, 20 people or something, but it was so weird. It's like this other me had taken over and I was in a dream or something, because I sure as hell was not the one in control."

"The fucking hell you weren't in control!" Lassiter shouted, setting the hot bowl back onto the counter with a dull _thunk_. "Do you have any fucking idea what the hell I went through trying to save these people, JUST to have you kill them the minute, the _minute_, I turned them out on their own again?" He took a breath, and calmed slightly.

"Do you have any idea what it's like to lose them _just when you thought you saved them_?" he hissed.

Shawn had recoiled back mid-rant, but was millimeters from being nose-to-nose to Lassiter. "Do you have any fucking idea what it's like to _not_ be in control of your _own actions_?" he spat. "Do you want to be the one who is _responsible in the _FIRST PLACE?" he screamed, swinging a fist out at Lassiter.

Easily, Lassiter grabbed the punch, thrown in anger, and twisted Shawn around. He was surprised when he didn't even hear a gasp. Even the most hardened of criminals did when he did that. "Do you really want to do that to the man who is the _only_ thing standing between you and jail?" he asked, nearly snarling the question.

Shawn's nose wrinkled in apparent distaste, but conceded the point. He allowed his head to hang, showing that the fight had left him.

"Then we understand each other," Lassiter stated calmly, letting go of Shawn's fist and picking his bowl of noodles back up. "Want some?"

"No thanks," Shawn said, stalking back down the hall.

* * *

Once back in the room that was apparently his for now, Shawn flopped back onto the bed, face-down, and screamed into the pillow.

His frustration let out without harming anything, Shawn rolled over and stared at the plain white ceiling.

"What the hell did I just get into?" he whispered.

* * *

Out in the kitchen, Lassiter wondered the same thing as he gently slurped noodles into his mouth. The confrontation with Shawn wasn't quite what he expected, but he honestly couldn't say that he hadn't been expecting it. Every time he thought he knew what the man would do, he ended up being left in the dark and wondering what the man would do next.

Finished, he covered the rest of the noodles (maybe Shawn would want some later. Lassiter was starting to have a hard time not thinking of him as a suspect anymore, not with the display he'd just seen. There was a knife strategically placed on the counter, and the man never even looked at it or made a move to take it) and placed them in the refrigerator. Putting said knife away, he sat in the living room and turned his television on to the all-day news station.

"And now, back to our top story. Santa Barbara Police Chief Karen Vick has shared with us some shocking news. The man suspected of at least 5 counts of pre-meditated murder is no longer on the police radar.

"It is simply like the man fell off the map," the recorded image of Vick said, her eyes cold and distant. "But the people of Santa Barbara may rest assured that we've got our best detectives on the case."

"Load of bullshit if you ask me," Shawn snarked from behind the recliner. "You're sitting in the living room."

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "Decided you were going to be social, or should I be considered blessed?" he asked, the banter feeling refreshing. O'Hara simply looked at him funny whenever he tried to start a round.

"Dude, I'm hurt. I'm always social!" Shawn gasped, grabbing at his chest and mock-falling into the couch.

"Yeah, and you are damn lucky I remembered to close the heavy blinds before you woke up," Lassiter said, feeling a sinking feeling as he reopened their argument from earlier.

Shawn just waved a hand, allowing the jibe to fly over his head. "Good thing you did. I'm pretty sure the two police officers outside would be very interested to hear you've got a wanted fugitive."

"Good thing most of my house is soundproof as well," Lassiter remarked, wincing as he remembered a time when the soundproofing _hadn't_ come in handy.

* * *

_2004_

_Lassiter sighed-it was three-in-the-morning, and he couldn't sleep. Stretching as he made his way down the hall, he stopped short as a noise startled him. He dropped into a crouch and inched his way forward through the rest of the hall._

_The sight that greeted him didn't seem too unexpected-someone had broken into the house. They must've picked the lock, because nothing was broken and the door was still closed. The perp had his (or her) back to Lassiter and was rifling through a few of the drawers._

_Silently, Lassiter reached up to the bowl of nuts, fishing out the gun he had stashed there. They rattled against the bowl, and the perp turned._

_From the build, Lassiter had to go with man. He rolled away behind the island, gun in hand, but not before the man fired off a shot._

_The bullet pierced his arm, a through-and-through shot, but it still hurt like a son of a bitch. Lassiter reached around and fired blindly, hoping he'd hit the perp, but no such luck. The bullet lodged itself into the wall, and the door banged against the wall and slammed shut._

_Unfortunately, Lassiter's neighborhood had a habit of having a lot of angry spouses/boyfriends/girlfriends slamming doors early in the morning, and nobody had thought twice about it. The blood loss had started to get to Lassiter as well, as he passed out just before reaching the phone._

_Several hours later, O'Hara came by. Her partner hadn't called in, so he must be sleeping in. The door unlocked surprised her, as Lassiter was very careful about that, and the mess of the room, coupled with the blood on the floor and an unconscious Lassiter connected the dots easily, and she radioed for an ambulance before tending to the shot wound on his arm._

_

* * *

_

Shawn did not miss the way Lassiter unconsciously rubbed his arm, about where the bullet grazed him. Instead of commenting on it, he asked, "So, now what do we do?"

* * *

**Well, that's it for now kiddies! It may be short, but it is what it is, and it is the start of a new arc! I hope you guys are enjoying so far and liked the little Lassiter remembrance section! Next chapter should be up by Tuesday, I hope.**


	7. Arc 2, Part 2 of 5

**I am so sorry that this is late. I could give you a thousand reasons why, but it's not any excuse because I should've had this done Tuesday. I had been writing it out by hand, so all I needed to do was type it out in Word. You can see how well that turned out. So, again, I'm so sorry that this is late, but with my schedule, it probably wasn't in my best interest to say 'Oh, I'll have this done by Tuesday.'**

**Well, um, Chapter 7 anyone?**

**Gus gets his own little thing, and this was SUPPOSED to have more Henry in it, but I didn't get that far. The chapter is short, but sets us up for a probably action-packed next chapter.**

**Also, if you look and squint VERRRY closely, you'll spot a small reference to another show again!**

**

* * *

**

"_What now?"_

The question rang around Lassiter's head for a moment, before he shook it. "I have absolutely no idea at this point," he murmured. "You confessed to doing the murders on tape, which draws conclusive evidence straight to you. The only thing you could do is plead temporary insanity, in which case you'll get a full mental workup and be declared fit and tried for murder, unless we could, without a doubt, prove that you were on drugs and did this against your conscious will."

"Sounds like a lot of bull for a simple case," Shawn tried to joke, but the glare on Lassiter's face quashed that attempt. "Looks like we're going to France!"

Lassiter almost asked why, but then remembered the one recording when Shawn had spoken nothing but French. "They're going to see me leaving with two tickets as suspicious, you know," he said instead.

Shawn thought about it for a moment, then grinned. "I have an idea," he said.

* * *

The shrill ringing of Gus' cell phone was surprising, but not unexpected. He snatched it up and spoke into the microphone. "Hello, you've reached Burton Guster, pharmaceutical sales representative in the Santa Barbara area. How may I help you?" When you're a good undercover agent, you can't associate yourself with the people you're actually working for. You have to find a mundane job to front your operation.

"_Gus, man! How are you?"_ a cheerful voice on the other end said.

"Shawn!" Gus nearly shouted, but kept it to a very small whisper so no one who happened to be listening (and there were several bugs in his apartment that he hadn't gotten around to 'exterminating' yet) would become suspicious.

"_Dude, you remember me! That's so sweet!"_

"No shit I remember you, Sherlock. You're at second on INTERPOL's Most Wanted List!" Gus had stepped outside quickly and was now walking down the alley to hop over the wall that separated his building's alley from the park.

"_Only second? Come on, buddy, can't you get me higher than that?"_

"Your mother."

To many, that would be an insult, and to Shawn it was as well. _"Ouch. Well, that's OK then. I can be second to my mother. In fact, I prefer that, especially since I have a favor to ask…"_

"No. No, no, no, and no." Gus said, a sinking feeling that he knew both what was coming and what the request was in the pit of his stomach.

"_But it's for a good cause! Don't you want to help me and Lassie clear my good name?"_ Shawn whined.

"You did that to yourself, man, I am not getting in the middle of it. My director would freak out."

"_But that's the beauty of it, he doesn't have to know!"_

"I'm INTERPOL, not CIA, Shawn." _Though sometimes there's not much difference._ "I cannot and will not help you."

"_Gus!"_

Gus didn't hear anything after that, mostly because he had just hung up on his best, or former best, friend.

* * *

_Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep…_

Shawn stared at the phone blankly, then looked at Lassiter. "He hung up on me," Shawn said slowly, shock quickly taking over.

"To be honest, I'm not a damn bit surprised," Lassiter said evenly. "It's seven in the morning, and you've, intentionally or not, killed quite a number of people, and you two are, or are supposed to be, best friends."

"We are so fucked if we can't get to France," Shawn moaned, ignoring most of what Lassiter just said. "I know she's still there."

"Slow down," Lassiter said, narrowing his eyes. "Exactly _who_ is in France that we need to get there?"

"Well, French people, obviously," Shawn said, grinning at his joke.

_Yeah, got that one genius. Who else?_ But Lassiter didn't voice his thoughts.

"My mom, for another."

"What the hell does your mother-" Lassiter broke off as Shawn's eyes widened.

"Oh my God, Abigail's there. She was supposed to visit this week even though I was gone. Lassie," he said, eyes barely contained in his head. "We have to get there now. Abigail's alone with my mom."

* * *

**Quick note before we go on, yes, this will be absolutely horrible later on. For now, though, there's still a little more to go in this chapter.**

**

* * *

**

Gus felt horrible for hanging up on Shawn about five minutes after he did. But he was a spy, an undercover man, so he knew he couldn't afford to let Shawn ruin his entire career just to try to clear his name. But the more he thought about it, the more guilt built in his gut, and he couldn't focus as he went through the ruse of selling pharmaceuticals.

_There's not a damn thing you can do to help him_, his mind reminded him.

"I know, I know," he groaned to himself, well aware that he was talking to himself in the middle of the street. "But this is gonna eat me alive for ages."

The guilt stayed with him, building as he went through his morning routine. By the time he reached his fifth stop, he knew he couldn't keep thinking about it.

Dialing quickly, he held the phone to his ear impatiently, speaking as soon as somebody answered. "I know I said I couldn't do anything and I hung up on you, Shawn, but my immediate superior owes me one. We leave tomorrow, 8 AM. Get there on time."

Once again, he hung up, and wondered what he had just gotten himself into.

* * *

**In case you didn't notice, it was a very minor reference to **_**Burn Notice**_**, in the part right after Gus says **_'Hello, you've reached Burton Guster, pharmaceutical sales representative in the Santa Barbara area. How may I help you?'_** If you are unfamiliar with the show, it references it because Michael Westen makes several remarks such as these throughout the show, like little monologues explaining tidbits. It's a little hard to explain if you've never seen the show, but it is also on USA and is a very good show, I recommend it if you like **_**Psych**_** (well, duh, of course you like it, why else would you be reading this story?) as well as **_**NCIS**_** (either), **_**CSI**_** (any), **_**Blue Bloods**_**, etc.**

**So, this week's not gonna be much better than the last, so I'd have to say it's gonna be the weekend before I get a chance to update again, especially since we're performing the play this week. Hope you enjoyed, drop me a line sometime berating me for being late.**


	8. Arc 2, Part 3 of 5

**Good news is, I've got the rest of the story planned!**

**So, you're gonna love me and/or hate me. Good news-I've figured out what I'm going to do in the rest of the story! But in order for it to happen, it's gonna be longer than I thought it was going to be originally. I also have the ending planned out, and it's gonna be pretty good. You'll hate me for several deaths, and you'll also hate me because once again, I don't know how often I'm going to get to update. That's just a forewarning so you aren't going 'Where's the next chapter?' So, I'm really sorry about that, and also for this being late again. I'd kinda hit a roadblock until on the bus, and I was like 'Oh, that'd go in awesome!'**

**So, expect probably 2-3 chapters more for this arc, and two for the third. The third arc is written (yeah, don't ask me why I wrote the ending before the middle, but oh well).**

**Also-I'm sorry this ended up really late again. We ended up having play practice this past week because we got a whole bunch of snow and our second performance was cancelled until last night.**

**Well, enjoy chapter 8!**

**

* * *

**

Shawn and Lassiter waited impatiently at the airstrip. Gus had said to meet him there at 1:30 that afternoon, and they were there. He was not.

"Finally," Shawn muttered as a blueberry Echo pulled up. "Dude, you made it, I-"

Lassiter watched Shawn's lips flapped and he took a couple steps back. "Gus," he said slowly, staring at Henry. "Why is my dad here?" The words almost sounded strangled to Lassiter's ears.

"Exactly, why is Detective Spencer here? I thought it was going to be the three of us," he snapped. "No offense, Detective."

"Just Henry now, Lassiter," Henry said, waving him off to address his son. "I'm here because I want a crack at your mom, Shawn."

"That's not something you hear everyday," Lassiter muttered to Gus, watching as father and son held a quiet conversation.

"They both have…issues with Madeline," Gus said, pulling the dark glasses from his eyes to squint at the hanger. "Let's leave it at that. Are you two done having a heart-to-heart over there? The guy who owed me said we have to be outta here by two."

Gus led the way into the hangar, with Lassiter on his heels.

"Guster?"

"Hmm?" he asked, wheeling a ladder close to the plane's door and beginning to climb up.

"You know his…mother, I guess, more than a lot of people. And I don't want to ask Spencer Senior because he'll be a little more biased than you. What's she like?"

Gus stopped and sat down, looking older than his thirty-some years. "I'll have to admit that I'm biased myself. But…

"When you're little, most kids think that parents can do no wrong. They wanna grow up to be just like their dad, or mom, whatever. Shawn was never like that. Oh, sure, he knew his dad couldn't do anything wrong because he was a police detective. Someone who had to keep others safe couldn't do anything bad, could they?

"It wasn't like that with his mom. When he was little, there'd be times that I'd come over, and we'd go to my house, just so that we didn't have to stay and hear them yelling at each other. When he was 6 or so, they got divorced, and fought for custody. The judge let him pick, and it was hands down, he wanted his dad, and Madeline-that's her name-was furious. A few years later, she applied for custody again, but she was claiming abuse."

Lassiter took a step down in shock. His hero, an abuser?

"None of it was ever real-" Lassiter let out the breath he'd been holding. "-but it was very convincing because the letters were all typed in an email. So she got a hold of Shawn, and they went to France."

Lassiter followed Gus into the plane, as Shawn and Henry had caught up and were approaching. Gus went into the cockpit, and Lassiter sat in the copilot's seat.

"So, what? Is that it?"

"What do you think?" Gus asked, going through the preflight check and nodding when he saw Henry shove the ladder out of the way.

"I'm guessing not."

"That woman was a menace." Gus turned to him, a steely look on his face. "She was nice to me, of course, but I'd be up in Shawn's room with him and we'd hear her yelling at Henry, some of the worst stuff you could ever hear. Made me glad of my family."

"I still don't see how she could be that bad."

"Well, you know that Shawn was drugged to kill those people, or have you been hiding under a rock these past couple weeks?"

A memory of Shawn coughing up blood in his guest bedroom rose unbidden in Lassiter's mind. Shivering, he shook his head.

"You guys buckled back there?" Gus yelled, getting two answers from behind them. He began to walk the plane out onto the runway, still speaking with Lassiter as he did.

"That's one of the lesser offences we're trying to get her on. We've got at least 20 counts of murder in 13 countries, half of those murders being government officials, and larceny from the government as well, including the drug used on Shawn."

Lassiter clicked his seatbelt together as the plane thundered down the runway, watching the ground fall away as they rose. "What kind of drug was it?"

"Trust me, you probably don't want to know, especially since _I_ don't even know most of the story."

They were silent for a while, and when the plane leveled off at 33,500 feet, Gus sighed. "You better go back and catch the sleep you can. We've got a solid twelve hours to go, and you all need your rest."

* * *

Shawn jerked awake as the plane bounced when it landed, and he fell to the floor. Good thing he was in first class and hadn't fallen into the seats in front of him. Too badly, anyway. His ribs would be protesting in the morning. In fact, they were already starting to ache dully.

"_Good morning, sunshines! It's been about thirteen hours and forty minutes since liftoff, and I trust you've all had a good ride's rest."_ Sure enough, Gus had decided that using the speakers was a good idea.

"_The weather in wonderful Paris is very warm and sunny today, so I'd recommend outdoor activities for today. The time is about 3:00 in the afternoon, although it's 3:00 in the morning back in Santa Barbara. You'd have time to get some sight-seeing in before dinner. May I recommend a nice hotel to stay at?"_

"No, we have somewhere to stay!" Shawn called back good-naturedly.

"_Sleeping beauty's awake!"_

"Haha," Shawn said sarcastically in the direction of the cockpit. Lassiter poked his head out, smirking.

The plane taxied to a halt, and looking out the window, Shawn saw they were in a hanger, and someone was wheeling steps toward them.

Gus was powering down the plane when Shawn wandered in. "So, what's the game plan?" he asked.

"Got me," Gus shrugged. "I'm just the pilot, remember?"

"And I thank you for that, my good sir. But now, we've got to get to my mom's house."

"So how are we getting there?" Henry asked, coming up from behind and cracking his knuckles, his face grim.

Shawn scanned the area, his face lightening when his eyes found whatever they were searching for.

"That."

It was a taxi. How cliché.

* * *

"C'est merveilleux de thé, Madeline," Abigail gushed, sipping the fragrant tea slowly. **(1)**

Madeline smiled over her own mug. Soon, it would take effect, and her son could truly be happy.

* * *

"We do have time to kill, because the police don't patrol at night," Shawn mumbled from his place beside Lassiter against the window in the back seat of the taxi.

Gus checked his watch. Again. "We should stop to eat," he said anxiously.

"I know just the place." As Shawn spoke in rapid-fire French to the cabby, Lassiter leaned closer to Henry and Gus. "Anyone want to fill me in on how the hell we're gonna do this?" Neither answered.

* * *

Gus wolfed down the food in front of him. His skills were more useful in the Eastern European/Balkan countries, but he knew his French cuisine, and this was absolutely _divine_.

The other weren't quite so enthusiastic. Whether it was nerves, jet lag, or the food, even Shawn was just pushing most of his plate away.

"Sorry," Gus mumbled around his food. He swallowed. "My flying tends to have this effect. I'm pretty sure it has something to do with landing…"

Beside him, Lassiter stiffened.

"Gonna puke?" Gus asked, sliding his chair to the side.

Mutely, he shook his head, mouth flapping in an attempt to form words. Finally, after much force, he spoke just three syllables.

"O'Hara."

* * *

**1:** _This is wonderful tea, Madeline._

_

* * *

_

**Dun dun dun! Why on earth is Juliet in France? I have no idea, I just needed her there.**

**So, I've begun the next chapter as well, and hopefully it will be up by Christmas! If not, have a wonderful holiday, stay safe, play in snow, drink hot chocolate, play in the snow…did I mention you should all play in snow?**


	9. Arc 2, Part 4 of 5

**Nine already? I promise this won't end up in three parts! That's what happened to my** _**Speed Racer**_** story **_**Road to Freedom**_**. I posted chapter nine in three parts…don't ask me why. Although this IS going to be a fairly long chapter to make up for quite a while of not-posting when I said I would.**

**So, anyway, yeah. The major action will start about halfway through the chapter, and I must forewarn you: **_**There Will Be Death In This Chapter Once Again**_**. I'm serious. I won't warn you when it comes into play because it's not as graphic as chapter 3, or **Arc 1, Part 3 of 5 **was, but you need to know so if you're a little squeamish and don't even like the merest MENTION of death, you can skip. But it's very important to the story, so I'd advise not skipping. If you do, I'll give a brief overview at the beginning of the next chapter.**

**There's several author's notes scattered around, mostly because I just can't not talk while I'm writing, and I just make a couple comments here and there. Translations are where there'd be a break in the story from a scene change/character change.**

**I'd also like to take a moment at this point to thank everyone who has reviewed, favorited, or alerted this story. Your sometimes silent but very much appreciated support, whether in a one-or-two word review, a very lengthy review, or just the alert and favorite buttons, honestly can't be told in words. I try to respond to everyone that I can, and if I don't or I forget once in a while, know that your support is greatly appreciated. I know a lot of authors say it, but it's true. If you've never written something and never gotten that positive response, it's one of the most amazing things in the world for any author to experience, to know that their work is liked. Thank you all. (Yes, that was in the middle of the story, but it needed to be said.)**

**Enjoy!**

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"_O'Hara."_

The word rang around the table as its four occupants looked at the blonde, whose back was now turned to them, across two lanes of traffic and speaking into a cell phone.

"What the hell is she doing here?" Henry whispered furiously, ducking behind the decorative flora border that separated them from the street.

"I think we all want to know that answer," Lassiter said, eyes narrowing as he watched his partner. She glanced over her shoulder, oblivious to the group.

Gus, who until this point had been silent, now jumped up. "Bathroom," he said, darting off.

Shawn watched his friend leave. "I haven't seen him do the potty dance for a while," he murmured, feeling something odd was beginning.

* * *

Gus walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him to keep up with the charade. He'd felt his phone buzzing for a couple minutes, and couldn't risk picking up.

He dialed the call-back number, waiting impatiently.

"_Hello?"_ the voice on the other end said.

"It's me," he answered gruffly.

"_Finally! I've been trying to call you for five minutes!"_

"Sorry, Detective O'Hara, I was busy," Gus said sharply.

* * *

Shawn discreetly glanced at his phone. Three minutes. That was too long, even for Gus.

"I need to use the restroom," Shawn said, standing.

"Better go before you wet your damn pants then," Lassiter snapped, irritable since he'd spied his partner.

"Fine, Mr. Grouchy-pants," Shawn grumbled, threading his way between the tables in the restaurant.

Before pushing the door open for the men's room, however, Shawn pressed his ear to the door.

"Yes, it's set to go down tonight, Ms. O'Hara," Gus' voice said from within.

"I knew it," Shawn muttered, pushing the door open. "Gus, I know-huh?"

The restroom was empty, all the stall doors open and the window firmly closed.

Shawn scanned the room, his sharp eyes noting how there was a tiny screw on the floor. He looked up at the grate.

It was missing one, just the size of the one on the floor. From his view, he could also see the miniscule scrapes along the ceiling, probably from the grate brushing against it.

"Gus, I know you're up there!" Shawn shouted, pulling the trashcan over and flipping it over, spilling its contents to the floor. He climbed up and was about to pull the grate away when a voice from the door halted him.

"Monsieur le Président, qu'est-ce que tu fais?" The man had a questioning look on his face, and by the looks of him, was one of the janitorial staff. **(1)**

Shawn half-coughed, half-laughed. "Euh, eh bien, c'est évident, n'est-ce pas? J'ai noté une oder en provenance de cette zone en général-" Here, he waved at the vent. "et a décidé de prendre sur moi de faire mon devoir civique." **(2)**

"Il comprend l'escalade sur le dessus de poubelles?" **(3)**

"Pourquoi pas? Il est vous épargnant la peine de le faire vous-même, n'est-ce pas?" **(4)**

The man, with a strange look on his face, left, leaving Shawn to breathe. "OK, buddy, you better be up there," he said grimly, pulling the grate away.

* * *

**Just the translations to the above conversation as we do have a ways to go and it would be beneficial now instead of later.**

**1:** Sir, what on earth are you doing?

**2: **Um, well, it's obvious, isn't it? I noted an oder coming from this general area and decided to take it upon myself to do my civic duty.

**3:** It includes climbing on top of waste bins?

**4:** Why not? It is saves you the trouble of doing it yourself, isn't it?

* * *

As Gus made his way through the duct, he tried not to bang the sides and still talk to O'Hara.

"Yes, it's going down tonight!" he growled through gritted teeth. "It's only the sixth time I've said it."

"_OK, OK, I believe you! I just have to make sure so that backup can be there,"_ she said, and he could hear scribbling in the background. _"They aren't going to believe me if I don't have enough specifics."_

"That's the problem with the damn French," Gus said, finding an exit in an empty office. "They don't believe you unless you have enough information to practically convict you." ****To anyone French, I'm not trying to bash you or your government, I'm just making stuff up because I've never been to France and have no idea how the government works. Honest. I'm sorry to you or anyone else who may take offense to what I've written about them.****

There was a bang behind him, and Gus snapped around as best he could. "I've got to go. We'll meet later."

He snapped the phone shut just as Shawn came around the corner. "Dude," Shawn said, flopping down to stare at Gus' upside-down (to him anyway) face. "This is so uncool."

"That's not even a word," the INTERPOL operative said mildly, dropping down into the office below. "Why the hell are you following me anyway?"

Shawn sat up, frowning, and scooted over to look down into the room. "Uncool is too a word. It is a term meaning that this is not awesome."

"Whatever, Shawn, and you didn't answer my question." Gus had moved out of the view of the vent and was fiddling with the door now.

"You didn't come back after three minutes," Shawn said, dropping down into the room with ease, but lacking the grace that Gus had used. "I was starting to get worried. "Why are you talking to Detective O'Hara?"

Gus stopped, turning with narrowed eyes. "I'm not," he said, narrowing his eyes. "What makes you think that?"

"Um, just the fact that I heard you talking to her."

"Well, I wasn't, you were probably hearing somebody else's conversation. There are a lot of O'Haras."

"'It's set to go down tonight, Ms. O'Hara,'" Shawn mimicked, using air quotes. "If that's not talking to the detective, then I'm still drugged and this is all a dream fabricated by my working-but-not-in-control mind and I'm about to kill you."

"Not funny." The door was open.

"I know. That's why I just wanna know the damn truth!"

"You can't handle the truth!" Gus yelled, having the good sense to have shut the door before he began. "You were just on the run not two days ago! How the hell do you expect anyone, especially ME or your own DAD, to cope with that? Do you have any idea how hard it is to watch as your former best friend destroys any life he could possibly have had if he hadn't been FORCED TO LIVE WITH HIS PSYCO MOTHER?"

Gus' chest was heaving, eyes wide, pupils dilated, nostrils flaring in his anger. "You can't handle the truth because I don't know if you're honestly not still drugged!" He opened the door, stalking out. He didn't slam it, but he might as well have from the look on Shawn's face.

* * *

Shawn mentally reeled. His best friend-or former best friend, depending if he and Gus would ever make up-had yelled at him. In and of itself, it probably wouldn't have been unusual if things had worked out differently. Hell, in a different life, he and Gus might've been detectives or something. But Gus had expressed doubt in Shawn's ability to reform this time, insinuating that he was incorrigible when, to many, Shawn had done nothing wrong.

All this ran through Shawn's head as he walked through the halls back to the front of the restaurant. He scanned the area before stepping out, but there was no sign of Gus anywhere.

"Where's Guster?" Lassiter asked, standing as Shawn approached.

He shrugged. "I don't know. I caught up with him for a minute, and he said to head out without us, he'd catch up."

Henry looked at Shawn, assessing his son as if he was a criminal, which according to Gus, he was. Shawn shook the notion from his mind. He needed to keep a clear mind for tonight.

* * *

Gus stepped into the waiting taxi. O'Hara was already inside, trying to communicate with the driver.

"So, Ms. O'Hara, are you ready to help INTERPOL take down a wanted criminal?" he asked.

She smiled at him, pausing in her conversation to nod. "Juliet, please, Mr. Guster, there's no need for formalities."

"Then I insist on you calling me Gus," he said. Turning to the cab, he spoke the few words he could in French. "De police, s'il vous plaît."

* * *

**Once again, a quick translation: the French in this last tiny bit said 'The police, please.'**

**

* * *

**

It was dark, the neighborhood silent. From living here, Shawn knew the last police sweep had gone through just a couple minutes ago, and would not bother them.

"OK, let's go," he whispered, and Henry and Lassiter followed him up the walk.

"Wait here in the bushes," Shawn said, still whispering. "I'll go in first, and you come in after I've gotten her away from the door."

They nodded, each taking a separate side of the door. Shawn took a deep breath.

_Knock knock knock_

"Oui?" asked a female voice from within after a moment.

_Abigail_, Shawn realized with a pang.

"Est-Madeline Shepherd ici?" Shawn asked, hoping she was there for Abigail's sake.

"Shawn!" Abigail threw the door open and leaped, throwing her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. "Oh my God, I missed you so much!"

"Abigail!" Shawn gasped, carrying her in. "How are you?"

"Absolutely wonderful!" she gushed, dropping. She opened her mouth, but instead of something happy as he expected, her voice was cold. "Who are your friends?"

He turned to see Lassiter standing in the hall with Henry, the latter closing the door.

Shawn gripped her shoulders gently, speaking softly and quickly. "They're good men. Listen, Abigail, you need to go. This is about to get ugly, and I don't want you in the middle of it."

Confused blue eyes blinked back at him, framed by her lashes. "Shawn-"

"No, Abigail. Get away, don't look back, and run. Just run. Don't stop for anything, not even to call the police. My mom's been getting away with her crime for too long."

"Shawn, your mom's not a problem," Abigail said, almost breathless and little huffs of laughter sneaking their way into her speech. "Not anymore. I took care of it. For us."

Shawn looked at her, searching. "What?"

"She's had free reign for too long. Now we can have our life."

"Free reign…" Shawn said questioningly, in a daze.

"Needle!" Lassiter shouted, but it was too late.

"You…" The thought died on his lips, the fog surrounding his brain thickening to turn to black.

* * *

**Ha! I KNOW you did not see THAT one coming! That I'd make…let me count…three people evil, did you? But that's not all, folks! There's still quite a bit left to go. Oh, and I bet you can't guess why I made Madeline's maiden name Shepherd. Let you know at the end!**

**Translations: 'Yes?' 'Is Madeline Shepherd here?'**

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"Lassiter!"

The harsh whisper pulled Lassiter from his previous groggy self. "The hell?" he asked softly, blinking and frowning when it didn't make the dark his eyes were seeing go away.

"Damn basement." Fully awake now, Lassiter could just make out the shapes of boxes in front of him. He swung his head around and saw Henry tied behind him.

"Where's Shawn?" he asked, squirming in the very uncomfortable chair.

"Not sure," Henry said, grunting as his hands twisted. "Got it," he said triumphantly, and Lassiter could feel Henry's hands on the knot. He grasped the back of his chair, trying to keep his own hands out of the way.

"So, I'm assuming we're in some sort of alternate room? This seems pretty small for a basement," Lassiter remarked, looking around him.

"You're in the wrong position, kid. There's plenty of room in here." Henry finally had the knot undone, and Lassiter stood, trying to circulate blood through his wrists again.

"Upstairs?" Lassiter asked, nodding in the direction of the aforementioned.

"Lay on, MacDuff," Henry said, gesturing for the other to lead.

* * *

"Shawn, Shawn, Shawn," Abigail _tsk_ed as she walked around the man. "You were supposed to be living quietly in Santa Barbara, waiting for me. But you didn't take your medicine, did you?"

"Not when I got control of myself again," Shawn growled, gasping when she grabbed his hair and pulled his head back sharply.

"Shawnie," Abigail said plaintively. "We could've been _happy_ together. Why would you ruin it?"

"We wouldn't have been happy. You'd have a guy under your control, not a husband. If you were damn well gonna do that, get a fucking supermodel, not me."

Abigail sighed through her nose, her eyes hardening. "Fine," she spat. "Let's see how well you like death. And your friends can't help you now."

She raised the knife Shawn hadn't seen in her pocket up over her head, ready to stab. Out of the corner of his eye, Shawn saw Henry and Lassiter at the top of the stairs to the basement, but they were too far away to do anything other than yell.

"No!"

The voice was unexpected to say the least. At the very last possible second, Gus leaped in front of his friend, blocking most of the hit as Abigail swung the knife down. The end just ripped Shawn's shirt, most of the energy having been used to go through Gus' neck.

Said man hit the floor, dead before he even reached it.

"GUS!"

* * *

**Madeline Shepherd comes from Cybill Shepherd, who is the actress who plays Madeline Spencer on the show. Clever, isn't it? As far as I looked, I couldn't find a canon maiden name for her.**

**Next chapter should be up sometime next week, I'd say. It's going to be more of an Arc 2 Wrap-up chapter, I think. I don't know, I could be totally wrong and we'll end up with more than that until the last arc. Whatever. Oh, and I forgot to mention that I shortened the last 'arc' to one chapter, so it's more of an epilogue and will be posted as such. See you guys later! Remember to hit me up with any questions you may have.**


	10. Arc 2, Part 5 of 5

**Chapter 10! I really hope this has been worth it for you guys.**

**And if you skipped, which I forgot to warn you, so you probably didn't, Gus died last chapter, and that's all there is to it! Well, sorta. I probably could've gotten away with not killing him, but that doesn't make for a very good story, does it?**

**OK, so off that path and onto another: There's more death to come. Just a forewarning.**

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"GUS!"

Shawn's anguished cry stopped the room in their tracks as everyone stopped to look at the downed man.

Abigail lifted the knife again. "This time, I won't miss!" she spat, bringing her arm down.

_Blam!_

The report echoed around the house, the bullet lodging itself into the wall just above Shawn's head. Abigail's hand went slack immediately, the knife clattering to the floor. As her body fell, O'Hara made her way farther into the house, her gun letting out a wisp of smoke that was caught by the breeze outside and carried away.

"I'd say you need backup," she said, blowing a small piece of hair that hadn't made it to her ponytail out of her eye.

"Thank God you are here," Lassiter groaned, stepping forward to untie Shawn. "But you couldn't have gotten here, say, 20 minutes ago when we were just going to come in?"

"My timing's good, but I'm not that damn good. Especially when my partner doesn't tell me anything about his plans!" she said, voice rising.

"O'Hara-"

"No! Don't O'Hara me! What happened to being a team, hmmm?"

"No, behind you!"

"Huh?" She turned just in time to take the bullet, which would've been through the back of the head like Abigail's, straight in her forehead. The blood splattered out the back of her head, catching Shawn, Lassiter, Gus' body, and Madeline Spencer/Shepherd, who had just come from the adjacent hallway.

"Henry, how nice to see you," she smirked. "Do you like the house? I was going for something…urbane."

"Nice, except for the blood you just sprayed everywhere. Don't you have any common sense?" Henry bantered back, edging closer and hoping she wouldn't notice.

"Not so fast, my dear ex husband," she said, swiftly aiming the gun at him instead. "I intend to get out of here cleanly, again. What do you think, Shawnie? Maybe…Russia this time? I hear they don't have as strict of-"

The last of her sentence was cut off by the bullet that entered her left temple. Lassiter had the gun, Shawn still tied to the chair.

"Nice shot, detective. There was one major thing you forgot, though."

"And what would that be?" Lassiter asked, a hint of sarcasm coming to his voice.

"I wanted to kill her! As payback. Now, please finish untying me?"

Henry beat him to it, fussing with the knot even as he said, "You would've had to be in line, kid. I've been wanting to do that for twenty years."

Finally free, Shawn stood and froze as a booming voice came from outside.

"This is the police! Come out with Detective O'Hara or Agent Guster in the lead, or we will shoot everyone when they come out!"

"Damn it!" Lassiter said, his face crinkling in disgust. "These police would really do that?"

"Hah, imagine growing up with it," Shawn said humorlessly. He gently hefted Gus' body up. "Might as well give them what they want."

They fashioned a makeshift pole out of the curtain rods, and tied a white cloth to the end in a semblance of a surrender flag. "We're coming out, don't shoot!"

Henry poked the flag out the door, and they heard several guns click the safety off at the same time. Lassiter went first, O'Hara cradled gently in his arms.

"Who are you?" the man who must've been the chief asked in a heavily accented voice.

"Detective Carlton Lassiter, partner to Detective O'Hara," Lassiter called back out. "O'Hara's dead, shot to the head at close range by Madeline…"

"Shepherd," Shawn hissed out the door.

"Madeline Shepherd," Lassiter finished lamely.

"And Guster?"

"Stab wound to the neck saving us," Shawn answered this time, a small knot working itself into his throat as he spoke. "Wielded by Abigail Lytar."

"We shall see," the chief said. "Have either of those ladies come out first."

"Dead as well," Lassiter countered, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Lytar with a shot to the back of the head by Detective O'Hara, and Shepherd with a shot to the temple by me."

"No wonder it sounded like World War III had started in there," a new voice chipped in. Chief Karen Vick was standing there, and she did not look happy.

"Stand down your men, please. The one in the lead would be much more valuable to me alive, and as for the other two…" Vick narrowed her eyes. "We will need to make arrangements."

The French police chief looked oddly disappointed, but ordered the men down anyway.

"You three, with me," Vick said, beckoning them to a squad cruiser that was unmanned. She got in the front seat, glaring as Shawn tried to call shotgun. "I think not. All of you, backseat."

* * *

The ride was silent to the police station, and Vick was not a happy chief of police. She filled out the required forms to get the three of them back to the US with her.

"I want tonight to be silent. I want the plane ride to be silent. Understood?" The chief was not in a good mood, and her anger was reflected in her jerky movements, icy tone, and eyes.

They spent the night and the next day absolutely silent.

* * *

Finally back in Santa Barbara, Vick stood in her office. "Explain why I shouldn't book all three of you on charges of conspiracy and murder, you especially," she said, poking her finger at Shawn at the last addition.

The three exchanged glances. "Here's the proof," Henry finally offered, throwing the packet of papers that he and Lassiter had found in the basement safe on her deck.

Brow furrowed, Vick began to scan through the documents. "That's…a pretty good reason," she finally admitted.

"There'll still be a trial for you, though, Shawn Spencer, and I'd like to speak with you for a few moments. You two, however, are dismissed."

Lassiter and Henry exited, and didn't even think about trying to listen in. They may have gotten off the hook, but they weren't pushing it.

* * *

**OK, I'm sorry this is so lame towards the end. But I'm trying to finish it as I have had a lot of stuff going on, and I figured hey, this might be better than nothing. The last bit will be posted momentarily as well.**

**Oh, and before you ask: yes, the death of Juliet is necessary. While it's sad, and as much as I don't like the idea of Shawn/Juliet, I DON'T want her killed off, but you'll understand next chapter.**


	11. Epilogue

**This is it, folks! Thank you so much for coming on this journey with me! This chapter leads up to what could be, and I **_**might**_** make a sequel, or maybe a series of shots that takes various episodes as this takes place not too far before season 1.**

**So, anyway, feedback is very much appreciated, especially from those of you who put it on alert! I always love to try and address everyone who reviews, but it doesn't always work out, but I have time! Let me know what you think! Pretty please?**

**I apologize for the shortness, but I wanted to get it wrapped up without dragging the whole thing out farther than necessary.**

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"Your honor, my client, Shawn Spencer, is guilty of one thing: being manipulated to these murders. We have the evidence provided by the French government, as well as confessions signed by two different people and authenticated by a panel of witnesses, that Mr. Spencer had been drugged with an experimental weapon that the French were going to use against terrorism."

_Click_

Lassiter turned the television off after that. They had only shown the opening statements that evening, the trial having concluded rather quickly. Not much had been presented as Shawn _had_ been very careful before his…capture, of sorts. The man himself was now making a home in a very nice spare bedroom down his hall.

Lassiter sighed. Why had he agreed to that again?

Oh, yeah, probably because Shawn's best friend and Lassiter's partner had both been gunned down in France that night. They were helping each other heal, sort of. That part of the deal was still up for debate.

"Shawn!" Lassiter shouted, having gotten up and walked down the hall, but stopping after finding something strange hanging from his bathroom doorknob. "Why the hell is a pair of _boxers_ hanging from the bathroom door?"

"You…needed some more decorations?" Shawn asked with a hopeful grin on his face, peeking out from behind the door opposite Lassiter's own.

"I don't think so," he said, tossing them at Shawn. He could've easily ducked, but let them land softly on his head. Lassiter rolled his eyes.

"Why are you stripping as you walk down the hall?" he asked tiredly.

"Why aren't you?" Shawn countered with a grin, and Lassiter would never admit that he had to fight one off.

"Just answer the damn question."

"Fine, Mr. I'm-going-to-ruin-all-your-fun," Shawn grumbled, pulling the boxers off his head and opening his door fully to reveal a…cadet's uniform?

Lassiter coughed a couple times in surprise. "What the hell are you wearing?"

"A cadet's uniform."

"I see that, genius. How about why are you wearing it?"

"Well, Chief Vick said that in order to be your partner, I had to go through the short course at the Police Academy," Shawn said, shrugging and closing his door.

_My partner…_ Lassiter thought, then yelled, "SHAWN!"

* * *

**So, that's the end. I hope you enjoyed, and didn't think too closely on the boxer issue. I'm still figuring that one out.**

**Again, feedback is very welcomed! If you're even still reading by now. Come on, press the shiny button. You know you want to…**

**Until next time! Plus tard! (Ha, more French. And you'll just have to go to Google Translate for that one.)**


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